In the rush of getting up and getting ready for the day ahead, she had completely forgotten her strange dream, but as the words ‘fresh milk’ left her lips she remembered it, right down to the tiniest detail. She went to the pantry and fetched the jug of milk, poured some into her mother’s best china teacup, then put the strainer in position and began to dispense the tea with great care, for the pot was heavy. After a moment she said: ‘Baz? Can you remember being a baby?’
Baz was carrying the toast across to the table. He reached for the margarine and began to spread it on each slice before answering. ‘Remember being a baby? Course I can’t. No one can, you stupid thing. Why d’you ask?’
‘Because I dreamed I were a baby last night, a baby in a cradle,’ Lottie said, and could have kicked herself when Baz guffawed loudly. I should have known he’d only make fun of me, she thought bitterly, snatching one of the pieces of toast and reaching for the jar of jam. ‘You’re the stupid one because dreams aren’t supposed to be sensible,’ she said tartly. ‘Why, I dreamed once that I were about to sit down on the lavvy when a crocodile came out of it and tried to bite my bum. I suppose you’d say that that was a stupid dream because everyone knows a crocodile wouldn’t fit into the lav.’
She expected Baz to say something cutting, but instead he grinned at her rather sheepishly. ‘Sorry, but keep your hair on – you didn’t tell me it were a dream straight off, did you? Fancy dreamin’ you was a baby, though! If it were me, I’d rather dream a crocodile were snappin’ at me bum. I don’t like babies. Horrible squawking brats, always guzzlin’ or pooin’ and ugly as a pan o’ worms, most of ’em. I aren’t havin’ no babies when I’m growed up.’
‘No, you won’t, because no sensible woman would marry you,’ Lottie said, hoping to take Baz down a peg or two. ‘And the baby in my dream was sweet, really she was.’
Baz stared thoughtfully at her across the table as she cut the crusts off the slice of toast – Louella did not like crusts – and arranged the quarters on a pretty china plate. ‘Look, I said I were sorry, didn’t I? But you’ve got me puzzled. You said you dreamed
you
were the baby so how could you possibly know it was sweet?’
Not surprisingly, this question completely floored Lottie. She had been about to sweep out of the room, carrying her mother’s tea and toast, but she stopped short, staring at Baz. For once, he looked neither mocking nor cross, but just interested. ‘I really don’t know why I said the baby was sweet, except that the woman who picked me out of the cradle was very gentle and loving, so
she
must have thought I was sweet, don’t you think?’ she said at last, rather uncertainly.
‘Yeah, I reckon you’re right,’ Baz said. ‘But you’re a rum kid and no mistake! What else did you dream? I mean about being a baby, not about crocodiles and that.’
‘Well, not a lot, only that I were in a cradle made of wicker or reeds or something, and it were moving and I were outside, norrin a room, because I could see the blue sky and the little white clouds.’
Baz reached for a slice of toast and took a large bite, then spoke thickly. ‘I reckon you dreamed like that because you ate such a huge helping of meat and potato pie. Don’t say you didn’t – it were as big as the piece I ate. I noticed it pertickler. Then you had all that jelly and blancmange, and a cup of cocoa. That’s enough to make anyone dream odd dreams.’
Lottie was beginning to reply indignantly that her slice of pie had been half the size of the piece Louella had placed in front of Baz when a far likelier cause of her dream occurred to her. ‘I’ve got it!’ she exclaimed. ‘It were nothing to do with our high tea, it were that story Louella telled us the other evening when Kenny came round with Daisy. You know, Baz, the one about Moses and the bulrushes! Gosh, no wonder I thought I was sweet – the baby I mean – because in the story the princess loves the little baby so much that she takes him to the palace and brings him up as her own little boy. Oh, I’m so glad there weren’t a crocodile in the dream, trying to grab me out of the basket, like there were in Louella’s story.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ Baz said. He poured himself a mug of tea and added a large spoonful of sugar, then stirred it briskly. ‘And if you don’t take that tea and toast up to your mam before it goes cold, she’ll give you what for.’
‘You’re right; she hates cold tea and leathery toast,’ Lottie said. She went over to the sink and poured the cooling tea away, then seized another slice of bread and crouched down to hold it to the flame. ‘Please, Baz, do me a favour and pour my mam another cup of tea, would you?’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Only I promised Kenny I’d have the washing ready by eight . . .’ she glanced up at the clock above the mantel, ‘and it’s twenty to already.’
She half expected Baz to tell her to do her own work but he lounged to his feet, picked up the pot and poured the tea, then actually took the toasted bread from her and spread it generously with margarine and jam. She thanked him, took the plate and cup and headed for the stairs. She was on the bottom one when Baz spoke from behind her. ‘I wouldn’t mention that dream to anyone else,’ he said casually. ‘They might think you’d gone off your bleedin’ head. But if you have any more dreams like that you could tell me. I’d not laugh, I promise you. If you ask me, there’s a bit more to a dream like that than Moses and the bulrushes.’
Lottie stared at him for a moment, then began to climb the stairs once more. ‘All right, I won’t tell anyone else, not even Kenny,’ she said. ‘But I don’t suppose I’ll have any more dreams like that. Besides, I mostly forget my dreams as soon as I wake up.’
Baz made no answer but disappeared into the kitchen, and as she continued up the flight Lottie reflected that boys were odd creatures. Baz had never seemed to have any time for her, had always mocked or teased, or been downright obstructive, yet just now he had seemed truly interested in her dream and anxious that she should confide in him rather than in anyone else.
She reached her mother’s door, tapped gently and crept quietly into the room. Louella’s curtains were still drawn across and Lottie almost stumbled when she walked into something large and soft at the foot of her mother’s bed. She stepped over it, however, without spilling a drop of tea, and placed cup and plate on the bedside table before whispering: ‘It’s getting on for eight o’clock, Louella, and you promised you’d get the laundry ready so Kenny and meself could take it to the washhouse. It ain’t . . . isn’t, I mean . . . in the kitchen, so where have you put it?’
‘It’s in a pile at the foot of my bed,’ Louella said sleepily. ‘I’ve tied the whole lot up in a sheet, but if there’s anything you or Baz want to add, you can do so. You might pull the curtains back a tiny bit so I can see to drink the tea, but I don’t mean to get up yet. It’s far too early.’
‘Right you are,’ Lottie said cheerfully. She lifted the bundle of washing, which was pretty heavy, and made her way out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. Then she propelled the laundry ahead of her, watching as it bounced from stair to stair. What did it matter if it got dirtier, after all? Mrs Brocklehurst would make sure that everything was clean and ironed before it was returned to No. 2. She even starched Max’s evening shirts until they could have stood up alone, and put blue bag in the rinsing water so that they fairly sparkled when he walked on to the stage.
The washing landed in the hallway and Lottie’s hand was reaching out towards the knob of the kitchen door when it opened and Baz emerged. He was still chewing toast but had his newspaper bag across one shoulder and his cap on his head. Clearly, he was about to start work. Lottie pushed the laundry to one side and was about to re-enter the kitchen as Baz opened the front door, but before she could do so she heard Kenny’s voice.
‘Mornin’, Baz! Is Lottie about yet? I know it’s a bit early but I thought as I were ready we might as well get ourselves a head start. It’s washday and . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ Baz said impatiently. ‘You might tell your mam the kid kicked the washing down the stairs so it’ll be twice as dirty as usual. But that’s girls for you: always take the easy way out.’
Well, his friendliness didn’t last long, Lottie thought ruefully, heaving the washing up into her arms. Aloud she said indignantly: ‘Just you shut your gob, Basil O’Mara, and mind your own bleedin’ business. Kenny’s mam cleans them stairs twice a week and you could eat your dinner off ’em. Besides, the laundry’s too heavy for one person to carry, especially downstairs.’
Baz laughed. ‘Good thing Louella can’t hear you, swearin’ like a perishin’ docker,’ he said mockingly, but his tone was a good deal friendlier than it had been. ‘What have the pair of you got planned for today, eh? After you’ve lugged the sheets round to the washhouse, I mean?’
‘Dunno,’ Kenny said briefly. ‘But we’re both goin’ to help my mam and that’ll take up all the morning and most of the afternoon, I reckon. And of course Lottie’s on stage this evening.’
Baz nodded and ran down the steps into the court, and Kenny closed the door and came up the hall towards Lottie. ‘Are you ready?’ he said briskly. ‘If so, we’ll get goin’ at once. Mam’s gone to fetch the washin’ from old Mrs Ruddock and from Mrs Tennet at her canny house, so she’ll start their stuff first. But the sooner we get your mam’s stuff to the sinks the sooner we’ll be free to have a bit of fun.’
‘What sort of fun?’ Lottie asked suspiciously. Hanging round the stalls in St John’s market to see if they could nick something was not her idea of fun, but she knew Kenny often obtained fruit by this method. ‘Don’t forget I’m on stage this evening.’
‘Oh, you,’ Kenny said, grinning. ‘You keep saying you want to learn to swim, so I thought we might go down to the Scaldy. I know you won’t go in because it’s mostly lads there, but if I swam slow, like, you could watch. Likely you’d learn how it’s done without even getting your feet wet!’
Lottie giggled. ‘We’ll see what time your mam finishes with the washing,’ she said diplomatically. ‘And now let’s get moving, or we won’t reach the laundry till lunchtime!’
Chapter Four
‘Do you know, Lottie, you’re nearly as tall as me now? It never occurred to me before that you might grow tall, but I suppose I should have guessed it was possible. Your father, after all, was almost six foot, but being petite myself I thought you would be the same. Yet here you are at almost fifteen years of age, almost as tall as me.’
Louella’s voice was reproachful, as though Lottie had deliberately set out to grow tall, and her daughter looked at her with some puzzlement. She had not, after all, grown overnight – she had been this tall for a good few months, she was sure – so why was Louella suddenly remarking on it? Lottie knew she was no longer a fluffy little child star, but she still did the tap-dance routine with her mother, sang all the songs and tried, to the best of her ability, to smile winningly at the audience. She had realised, however, that a fifteen-year-old does not cause the audience to coo as appreciatively as an eight-year-old, and in fact it had been her suggestion that they should drop the ballet portion of their act. ‘My legs and arms are too long and thin to look sweet,’ she had told her mother, at least a year earlier. ‘The tap-dancing’s fine and the singing of course, but the ballet just looks silly.’
They had been in the green room at the time and when her mother had demurred, both Max and Jack Russell had said that Lottie had a point. ‘In a few years’ time, when she’s filled out a bit, she’ll be able to do all sorts,’ Max had said tactfully. ‘But right now, all her strength is being put into growing.’
‘And you won’t need to shorten your act,’ Jack Russell had pointed out. He had clearly realised that a shortening of the act would mean a dwindling of the money, and no one wanted to see their pay packet grow lighter. ‘You could put in an extra song . . . no, I’ve had a better idea! I seen an act which went down real well when I were in Great Yarmouth doin’ a summer show a coupla years back. You know Mackintosh’s Carnival Assortment? Toffees and chocolates and that? Well, remember the picture of Harlequin and Columbine on the lid? This young gal dressed up as Columbine and did a dreamy, stately sort of dance with a big tin of Mackintosh’s under one arm and she threw toffees to the audience and they loved it. Of course, folk in the audience knew who she were meant to be because of the picture on the tin lid which she kept flashin’ at ’em, and I reckon the toffees in the box were the cheap sort you can buy for a penny a quarter, so it wouldn’t cost you much.’
Louella had been excited by the idea. ‘Why can’t I dress as Columbine and Lottie as Harlequin?’ she had asked excitedly. ‘They are easy costumes to make – I’m sure Mrs Jones could do it standing on her head.’
Max, however, had vetoed this. ‘If you want to make your daughter look a laughing stock – and yourself of course – then go ahead,’ he said with unwonted frankness. ‘Darling Louella, a Harlequin even a couple of inches shorter than his Columbine would make both look ridiculous.’
‘But I can’t be Harlequin; I’ve far too much hair and my bosom would show,’ Louella had said. ‘Suppose we both dress as Columbine and throw toffees.’
Lottie had beamed at them all, seeing a way out. ‘If we move the Columbine piece to the end of the act and Louella does it by herself, then I could leave the theatre a bit earlier. I’d go straight home and start getting supper,’ she had added with serpentine cunning, and had then turned to Jack. ‘You
are
clever, Jack; it’s a wonderful idea. I’m sure management will love it as well as the audience.’